


And Truth Severe

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Drama, M/M, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-20
Updated: 2007-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he'd forgotten in his excitement over the story was that it wasn't just him anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Truth Severe

The note said, _Go to the alleyway behind the paper._

::::::::::

Against the bare walls of the empty office, the sound of the phone ringing was startlingly loud, and Arthur's furious typing stuttered for a moment, but he had chosen Barnie's old office for a reason, braving the rumored haunting -- supposedly why it was still empty two years after Barnie had taken the long walk off the top of the building -- and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and poor hygiene that certainly wasn't a rumor, so that he could avoid everyone in his race towards deadline. His nerves still jumping at the interruption -- and for thinking, just for a moment, that it was Barnie's ghost calling -- Arthur kept going, determinedly ignoring everything but the task at hand.

But he'd been indoctrinated into manners too young to keep it up, and by the fifth ring, cursing under his breath at his own idiocy, Arthur broke down, propping the phone between his ear and his neck so he could continue typing even as he said, "Yes," into the receiver, the ingrained manners not quite keeping the irritation out of his voice.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it was impolite to answer the phone that way?"

Arthur laughed, shaking the phone loose from its precarious hold. He caught it before it fell, leaning back in his chair, deadline forgotten for the moment, and the constraint of manners slipping away beneath long familiarity. "Yes, she did. She also thought it was impolite of me to sleep with other men, and yet, here I am, sleeping with you."

Curt's answering laugh was more a low rumble, but it made Arthur smile anyway. "I know it's been a while, but if you don't know the difference between talking on the phone and sleeping with me, it's definitely been too long."

A sarcastic reply, their normal exchange, was halfway out of Arthur's mouth before he realized that it had been too long. The distance he'd placed between them -- long hours for research, for endless meetings with Lou and the detectives, longer hours just writing, trying to find the right words to tell the victim's stories -- was voluntary, and he knew Curt understood, but Arthur figured he'd been skirting the line between dedication and obsession a little too closely lately, and it wasn't doing anyone any favors. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made it home for something more than sleep, and even though Curt was laughing about it, Arthur knew how the walls closed in on him when he spent too much time alone. That low pang of worry and care and want and love that was Curt to him told him his walls weren't exactly all that steady, either. "I'm sorry."

There was a pause on the other end, then Curt sighed. "So am I. I shouldn’t have bothered you when I knew you were busy."

"You don't bother me, ever."

Curt's snort buzzed the receiver against his ear, and Arthur almost giggled with the sensation, but the amusement died when Curt's voice dropped, going husky with suggestion. "Yeah, well, I still shouldn't have called like this. But maybe we can do something about how long it's been after the gig tonight."

Arthur swallowed hard, mentally hitting himself for forgetting the gig in the first place even as he tried to work some moisture back in his mouth, the room around him obscured by a vision of their bedroom, Curt spread out on the bed, arms wide and waiting. He finally managed to get out, "I'll meet you at The Club at eight."

"Okay." There was another pause, the quickened breathing on the other end telling Arthur he wasn't the only one regretting the distance at the moment, then Curt said all in one rush, "Though maybe you could get here a little early, and we could…"

"Yeah. Early." He was already reduced to words of one syllable, and he still had hours to go before he could leave, and way too much work to do in that time. They hung up, Arthur wondering if a deadline was actually enough of a reason not to just go find Curt right then, but was interrupted when the phone rang again. Still working his way up from monosyllabic, he answered, "Yes?"

"Didn't your mother ever teach you it was rude to answer the phone that way?"

Arthur's mouth went dry again as he scrabbled to turn on the tape recorder he kept connected to his phone. "Yes she did. She also taught me it was rude to kill people."

There was a laugh on the other end, then the Fairyland Killer said, "Oh, Arthur. How I look forward to our conversations."

::::::::::

_Get in the car that's parked there. The keys are in the ignition, and a map is on the seat. Follow the map to the spot marked X._

::::::::::

Apparently the detectives had been eager to rake Arthur over the coals, not bothering to shut the thick oak doors of the paper's conference room door, and Curt could hear their voices clear out in the hall. Knowing his presence in there would only make things worse, he settled against the wall outside, waiting for the interview to be over.

"And you're sure you've never heard this guy's voice before?"

"Christ, you have the tape I made. You know he's doing something to alter his voice, so even if I had heard it before, I wouldn't recognize it. Why do you keep asking me questions you already know the answer to?"

Arthur sounded truly curious, the reporter in him trying to understand the point in covering old news, but Curt understood. A life spent having a less than pleasant relationship with authority had taught him more than he wanted to know about standard interrogation techniques, and it made him angry that after all these weeks the detectives were still treating Arthur like he was potentially a suspect. He bit back the impulse to go storming into the conference room, knowing that just seeing Curt was likely to raise Sherman's blood pressure, and all that he was likely to get for his effort was being on the end of another interrogation himself. As much fun as it was to watch the detective start to stutter and foam after an hour of Curt's patented brain-dead junkie routine, Arthur had to work with the bastard, so fun time would have to wait until they caught the stupid fuck who'd started all of this.

If they ever did, that was.

Sherman hadn't started stuttering yet, but there was still heat in his voice as he answered Arthur's question. "Because there are ten men dead already, and until we catch the fucker doing it, there are likely to be more."

Curt only heard silence for a minute, and he again debated going in, knowing what he'd see on Arthur's face -- the guilt that he couldn't be more helpful mixed with a little chagrin at being caught out by someone he really didn't like -- and feeling the bone-deep need to keep Arthur from ever having to look like that, but the silence was broken before Curt could move, Sherman reinforcing Arthur's dislike by saying, "Mind you, considering he's offing queers, it's not like I don't sympathize with him to a degree, but, still, it's my job to stop him."

And that was enough to shift Curt off the wall into the doorway. Trying to appear like he hadn't been blatantly eavesdropping, he casually leaned against the heavy door, knocking on it with his head, his best shit-eating grin in place -- sure to please Arthur and piss Sherman off -- and happily lied. "I hope I'm not interrupting something."

Sherman looked as pissed off as Curt could hope, but Bellston, his partner, just nodded at Curt, saying, "No, we're mostly done here." He was always the quiet one in the partnership, which Curt had at first thought was because he wasn't particularly bright, willing to let Sherman take the lead, but after knowing Sherman for the last two months, Curt figured Bellston just couldn't get a word in edgewise.

Arthur had been sitting across the table from the two detectives, the bright, wavery sunlight of a New York City July streaming through the ground-to-ceiling windows of the conference room, hitting him full in the face. It was so reminiscent of an interrogation that Curt had to bite back the impulse to ask where the rubber hoses were. Instead he let Arthur come and grab him by the hand, leading him further into the room as if he were afraid Curt would escape otherwise. Not that Curt couldn't sympathize with the desire to escape, but he stood his ground, not willing to let the detectives, or Sherman at any rate, walk all over his own partner.

Being a particularly poor actor, Arthur muffed his host of the party imitation, his smile far too broad -- veering more towards crazy than the welcoming he'd probably been aiming for -- and his "I believe you've all met" was stiff as a board as well as unnecessary, since they'd all seen plenty of each other since the whole thing had started.

Curt used the opportunity to shake Sherman's hand, his own hands, strong and hard from years of playing, tightening until the detective started to grimace. He broke the handshake, pleased with himself until Sherman said, "You've got quite a firm grip for a fairy."

Arthur's hand on his arm kept Curt from throwing the punch he'd been half-way tempted to try, but it didn't keep him from sniping back. "Yeah?" he asked, like this was something he was grateful to hear, and he just couldn't wait to return the compliment. "Cool. And, you know, you speak English really well for someone who's brain dead."

This time it was Bellston's hand on Sherman's arm to hold him back, but Sherman just threw off the touch, including his partner in his all-encompassing glare. He turned back to Arthur, asking, "You sure there's nothing else you can think of to give us some clue to this asshole's whereabouts? Try thinking real hard, 'cause even beyond the advantage of keeping a few more of your little," he paused, face screwing up as he limply waved one hand, " _friends_ around for you to play with, I'd imagine that we'd both be happy if we never had to see each other again."

Arthur just sighed, shaking his head. "Don't you think I've been over and over this in my mind? For the past two months most of what I've done has been thinking about what this man has said, to the point that it's the only thing I can concentrate on. I've missed deadlines for other stories, I've missed…" he turned to Curt, guilt on his face again. "Oh, shit, I missed your gig again, didn't I?"

The one last night, and two more besides, but Curt wasn't going to let him feel guilty about it. "Hey, it's all right. No big deal." And it wasn't, not to Curt. Arthur had taken a lot of flack at work when his and Curt's relationship had become common knowledge, getting slotted into lesser stories than he should have with his ability and experience. Even with Lou trying to back him up, Lou's bosses hadn't liked the fact that Arthur was queer. They hadn't fired him because they didn't want the bad press -- the irony of which had made Arthur laugh grimly -- but they had slotted him into more 'appropriate' stories than he'd been doing, trying to turn a news reporter into a fashion expert to match their own stilted views of the world.

And that's the way it had gone for months, Arthur getting more and more resigned, until The Fairyland Killer -- already up to three kills, though there hadn't been much press, because who cared about a bunch of dead queers, right? -- had decided he wanted more column space, and had called upon the fairy reporter to give it to him.

Since then Arthur's life had been taken over by the story. He'd finally got his name back on a byline that meant something to him, but it hadn't given him much time for anything else, not even the relationship that had gotten him in trouble in the first place. But Curt certainly wasn't going to begrudge him whatever it took to get his career on track, to do the job he loved, not when it had been his own insecurities, especially his fear of being someone's dirty secret again, that had pushed Arthur into being open where his own impulse had been for discretion.

Arthur wasn't accepting the out Curt was giving him, though. Maybe his reporter's instinct was picking up on Curt's loneliness, or his fear for Arthur, being so much in the thoughts of someone who liked to kill people like them, or maybe Arthur was just missing Curt as much as Curt missed him, because he took Curt's hand again, wrapping their fingers together and holding tight, saying, "No, it's not all right. I said I'd be there and I wasn't. Detective Sherman told me I was just feeding this guy's delusions by writing more about him, so maybe I should back off a little, not give him as much attention as he's been getting."

The thought made Curt nervous, not liking the idea of what might happen to Arthur if he stopped giving the killer what he wanted, but it was Sherman who shouted, "No!"

When all of them turned to stare at him, he must have realized that he'd been a little too vehement, especially for someone who'd always treated Arthur like he was the prime suspect -- with Curt as a close second -- because he blushed, a look that sat oddly on his already florid features, his bulbous, alcohol-veined nose turning as red as Rudolph's. If he hadn't been a jaded, seen-it-all detective, he probably would have been scuffing his feet as he said, "It's just…" He trailed off, looking to his partner for help.

Bellston was still giving Sherman a wary look, but he smoothed it away, bringing out the slick, handsome smile that had probably put thousands of suspects off guard. "Detective Sherman's right, you shouldn't back off now. It's only likely to make him escalate further."

Sherman snapped his fingers, his own smile more likely to have scared thousands of suspects. "That's right. He's not likely to be happy about his pet reporter backing away from him now. He might even go after you."

Curt wasn't happy to hear his own fears voiced like that, but he was somewhat comforted by the fact that Sherman, asshole that he was, was concerned, too. That comfort dimmed a little at the speculative look on Sherman's face, and he rushed to say something before anyone could start talking about bait. "This guy's willingness to talk to you is still the police's best chance of getting a lead on him."

The two detectives didn't look thrilled at that evaluation of their skills, but they at least kept quiet, waiting for Arthur to look up from his contemplation of Curt's hand, still held tightly in his own. He brought the hand up to his lips for a brief kiss, his ears pinking at even that level of PDA in front of the cops, then he nodded, looking at Curt as he answered the other's concerns. "Okay, we'll keep to business as usual, then, and hopefully we'll get a break soon."

Bellston led his partner out of the room at that, the speculative look still on Sherman's face, but Curt decided not to worry about it at the moment. For the first time in days they were alone, awake, and touching, and Curt didn't even try to control the impulse to pull Arthur closer, to take the kiss Arthur had given his hand onto his lips, to take it further, deeper, until their chins were wet and their lips swollen. Arthur didn't resist when Curt led him to the little-used restroom at the end of the hall, the weight of their bodies holding the door closed against anyone who might wander by, the feel of their hands bringing them over.

Still breathless, his body shuddering against Curt's, Arthur said, "I missed you," but Curt didn't answer, just holding Arthur close, storing up the feast against the famine that was sure to follow.

::::::::::

_Leave everything in the car. Go into the park, turn left on the pathway. Follow it until you come to a statue, then turn left again. There's a maintenance building just past the edge of the treeline._

::::::::::

It was late when Arthur got home, his feet dragging over the threshold, and he was considering going to sleep right there in the doorway, but Curt was waiting for him, leading him through the perpetual clutter that was part and parcel of living with Curt, helping him out of his clothes, singing softly to him as he led him to their bed.

Arthur looked at it with all the lust he used to reserve solely for Curt, and felt a giggle trying to worm its way out of him at the thought of apologizing to Curt for committing adultery in his heart, but then he saw the candles, unlit, on the windowsill, the tip of a bow peeking out of the closed drawer of the bedside table, the gift it wrapped hidden below, and he remembered what day it was. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck."

It brought Curt's singing to a halt, but it didn't stop him from pulling the covers back for Arthur, pushing gently on his shoulders until he sat on the bed. "It's all right, Arthur. Everything's cool."

He'd been saying that for weeks, ever since the interview he'd interrupted in the conference room, but Arthur thought he heard something that wasn't cool in his voice now. He didn't know what to say, though, the words he made his living by always deserting him when it really counted.

It was Curt, often laconic, almost inarticulate at times, who always seemed able to find just the right words, helping to push back the hurt or the sadness, lying twined together with Arthur, both of them falling inward, until there was nothing but them and the music of Curt's words. But Arthur, a dictionary of words tumbling through his head, couldn't seem to find the any that said just how sorry he was. All he could get out past the exhaustion weighing him down and the lump in his throat was, "Happy anniversary."

Curt laughed at that, kissing him lightly, lips following Arthur down as Curt pushed him to lie back, breaking the kiss to pull the covers up to Arthur's chin, tucking him in. "Just rest, love. Everything will still be here in the morning."

Apparently having no problem finding just the wrong words, Arthur said, "I have an early appointment."

It made Curt pause as he was walking around to his side of the bed, but he threw it off quickly, turning the light off before settling beside Arthur. "Tomorrow night, then."

"I have a meeting with some guys from the FBI. Supposedly they have some system that can help track killers using psychology or such like."

Curt sighed at that, but he just laid an arm across Arthur's waist, spooning up behind him. "Later. Just get some sleep. You have bags under your eyes that I could put my whole wardrobe in."

Not that Curt had that many clothes, but Arthur could almost believe it, his whole body having gone almost numb with exhaustion days ago. But The Fairyland Killer apparently didn't need rest, up to fifteen kills, each one coming faster, and Arthur had barely had time to breathe between meetings and deadlines. He wanted to stay awake, to try to make up for missing their first anniversary together, but sleep dragged him down.

Down into dreams, strange and vaguely frightening, making him restless, but he slept through it all until he dreamed of holding Curt, bright like a candle in their dark room, only to be left alone in the dark, fingers desperately searching the sheets for any touch, but there was only Arthur and the dark and screaming Curt's name until he woke to his own name in Curt's worried voice, the feel of his arm still warm across Arthur's waist, and he grabbed it, holding on tightly as Curt whispered, "It's all right," in his ear, over and over.

But it wasn't all right, none of it was, and Curt would let his own guilt about the way Arthur's career had gone after they came out, would let the generous nature that was so much at the core of him, tell him it was, but Arthur couldn't agree. Things couldn't go on like this, not for either of them.

His first night with Curt -- all those years ago on a cold rooftop, only Curt's body, their shared arousal, and what had seemed like his own hopeless love, keeping him warm -- had seemed like catching the brass ring at the time. But then the next day had come, and he'd woken up out of the dream he'd been living. He could have blamed it on Curt for leaving, but in all honesty, Arthur had left, too. It had been a magical night, a magical time, but all the fears that had been bred into him, that had kept him quiet and secretive for so long, had whispered in his ear (his father's voice), telling him it could never last, that there'd be a price to pay for being the way he was. So when the Glitter movement seemed to fade away faster every day, The Creatures breaking up not too long after the DOG concert, and the swinging pendulum of public opinion leaving them all behind, Arthur had taken it as a sign. He'd paid the price in the friends he'd drawn back from, and made himself over into the career he'd chosen; observing, always observing, like he was hiding back in his room at home again, jerking off to pictures of Curt, forgetting that he'd once done so much more.

Finding Curt again had changed all that, and far for the better. Curt might think it had been all because of him that Arthur had come out, but it wasn't. He'd needed not to hide anymore. He'd needed to do something besides observe. But in these last months, still reeling from how much he'd started to hate his job when he wasn't really allowed to do it, finally getting to report on the type of story that reporters dreamed of finding, the kind that won people Pulitzers, feeling _vindicated_ , really, Arthur had allowed himself to fall back into old habits. What he'd forgotten in his excitement over the story was that it wasn't just him anymore. Everything he did affected Curt, too, and he couldn't keep allowing Curt to dismiss it out his own misplaced guilt.

He'd go to his meetings tomorrow, be the reporter he knew he could be regardless of what some of his bosses felt, but he'd come home tomorrow night, to be the man he wanted to be.

He couldn't put his life on hold indefinitely, held hostage by a man it wasn't actually his job to catch. He'd have to tell Sherman and Bellston that while he wasn't drawing back, he wasn't going to devote all his life to this anymore. Maybe they'd be so busy playing alpha dog with the FBI guys that they wouldn't notice. But even if Sherman started in on him again, Arthur couldn't afford to give in. If he was going to have to pay a price for being the way he was, then he'd pay it in his career, not in the man in his arms.

Still unsettled by the dream, still exhausted by months of worrying too much about the wrong things, he clutched Curt's arm tightly, afraid he was leaving bruises, but more afraid to let go. He thought, _I'm so tired, so fucking tired_ , and only realized he'd said it out loud when Curt rolled him over, drawing him onto his chest and tucking Arthur's head under his chin, and murmured, "Sleep then. Just sleep."

Feeling strangely weightless even as gravity tugged at sleep-heavy limbs, Arthur did.

::::::::::

_The door on the left side will be unlocked, and there will be stairs leading down. I'll be waiting at the bottom for you._

::::::::::

Curt spent most of his life in jeans and a t-shirt, but considering it was their anniversary -- plus one day -- he'd gone all out, putting on the leather pants that Arthur liked so much. He was still wearing a t-shirt, because Curt was still Curt, and comfort was better than style, especially since they were only going down to the corner for Gino's pizza. Arthur had suggested something nicer, but neither of them were really happy in crowds, and Curt figured an anniversary should be a celebration of the life they actually lived together, which meant Gino's, who made the best pizzas ever and delivered to their apartment regularly.

Arthur had said he'd be home by six, but he was already running late. Curt couldn't help but be nervous about it, about Arthur's decision to reclaim some of his life back from the paper, and the consequences thereof, but Arthur had seemed blasé about things going back to the way they had been at work. He just hoped that Arthur could hold onto that if things did go to hell.

Curt looked at the clock, the hands winding their way towards seven, thinking that for all his new resolve, Arthur must have gotten caught up in work again. There was a knot in his stomach, the worry that there was another victim, an even bigger knot that said that Arthur might be the victim. He knew it was irrational to think the killer would strike that fast -- even if he knew what Arthur was planning, or cared -- but Curt couldn't help it, and he was dialing the paper even as he laughed at himself for being crazy.

He wasn't laughing when Lou told him that Arthur had left for home an hour ago, not when it was a ten minute walk from the paper to the apartment. Curt managed the walk in five, the worry that had turned into full-blown fear driving him on, but he saw nothing of Arthur on the way, found nothing at the paper that would explain where he was.

Lou, constitutionally incapable of being worried, said, "Relax, Curt. He's probably just out shopping, and lost track of the time. He told me this morning he'd forgotten your anniversary and that he needed to make it up to you."

Though he'd never admit it out loud, Curt usually enjoyed Lou's avuncular manner towards him, that place in him that still craved a father figure even after all these years basking a little in Lou's easygoing fondness, but right then it was only pissing Curt off. He knew he wasn't at his most rational, but Arthur was missing, there was a killer still on the loose, one who'd been focused on Arthur for far too long, and the last thing Curt wanted was to be patted on the head and told to go home like a good boy and wait.

Giving up on Lou, and figuring the cops were a better bet at any rate, Curt went looking for a phone to call Sherman, only to literally run into the man himself, his partner in tow.

The coffee cup that Sherman had been holding was crushed, its contents splattered on the front of his shirt, only his beer belly keeping his pants dry. Giving Curt a look that should have frozen him dead on the spot, Sherman wrung his tie out, the liquid dripping from it apparently meant to be an indictment of Curt's clumsiness, but considering the polyester sprung right back into its normal shape, and considering he had more important things on his mind, Curt just ignored the implied criticism. "Arthur's missing. Lou said he left here over an hour ago, but he never made it home. And he definitely meant to be home, because we had plans. But he never made it, and he didn't call. So he's missing." Curt knew he was rambling, but he didn't want to hear anymore dismissals about Arthur actually being missing.

But Sherman surprised him, giving a wary look to his partner before he turned back to Curt. He hesitated -- which just scared Curt more, because Sherman trying to be delicate was nothing he'd ever thought to see -- but then he asked, voice soft, "You're sure that… that he didn't have, um, other plans?"

For a moment Curt couldn't figure out why Arthur's having other plans was such a loaded question, but then he got it. Sherman's stereotype of the way a gay man should be, or, hell, maybe just too many years of seeing the worst of human behavior, had him wondering if even on the night they were supposed to celebrate their anniversary, would Arthur pick up someone else. Just the thought made Curt laugh, but he shut it down fast, hearing the edge of hysteria trickling in. "No. He hasn't ever, and he wouldn't." Seeing Sherman's still suspicious look, Curt shook his head, gesturing at the newsroom behind them. "Ask anyone. Arthur's wouldn't. Ever."

Sherman looked like he might argue it, but Bellston nudged him, shaking his head, too. "I think he's right, Benny. You saw how he was earlier. All he was thinking about was getting home tonight. Even if he was going to stray, it wouldn't have been this way."

Making a face like he was chewing on a lemon, Sherman reluctantly nodded. "Yeah. You're right." He wiped a weary hand over his face, sighing. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Look, you stay here with the pain, I'll call it in." He looked back at Curt, and even though he'd just called him a pain, Curt could see in his eyes a hint of the compassion that must have made him choose this career in the first place. "Don't you worry. We'll have so many men out looking for him, three of them will trip over him before they even see he's there."

Bellston drove Curt back home, not wanting him to be out walking alone. "Already have one of you missing, no need to add to it." He walked him up to the apartment, doing a quick reconnoiter of the place before he'd let Curt in. "Just to be careful."

Curt appreciated it, appreciated the company. He usually preferred to be alone, but at that moment, playing the good host at least gave him something to do besides panic. He took his time making them coffee, trying to focus on the task at hand, but he kept losing it, his hands shaking as a too good imagination fed him pictures he didn't want to see.

The detective was on the phone when Curt brought him the coffee. His face was blank, but there was something about his manner that told Curt it wasn't anything good he was hearing on the other side. When Bellston put down the phone and the coffee, too, he turned to face Curt with the same attempt at diplomacy his partner had used not even an hour before.

Curt backed away, shaking his head. "No."

Bellston put out his hands, like he was going to hug Curt, but he dropped them again, looking a little lost himself. "Sherman said they found… something. He's sending a car over for you, 'cause they want you to… identify it. Maybe."

Curt said, "No," again, but he wasn't sure what he was negating. That it was Arthur? That it possibly could be?

Or that he could bear to identify him if it was.

He hadn't even realized he was shaking until he felt Bellston's arms around him, the man apparently feeling that Curt needed the contact more than professionalism needed to be maintained. Curt held onto the comfort for a moment, then pulled away. One way or another, Arthur needed him. Later. He could break down later. If he needed to.

Bellston looked at him as if he were afraid Curt was going to explode, but whatever he saw in Curt's face must have convinced him it was okay. He went to get his coat, pausing at the doorway. "The car should be here for you soon. You going to be okay?"

Curt was more than a little afraid that he would never be okay again, but he just nodded.

"Well, then I'll be going." He opened the door, but then paused again. "Unless… would it help if I was the one that took you? You know, familiar face and all?"

He wasn't sure if it would make any difference at all, but Curt figured that at least he'd get there faster with Bellston, so he just grabbed his coat and followed the other man out.

When they got to the park, there was only one other car parked there. Bellston put his hand out to keep Curt from leaving the car, staring at the other car and the darkness all around. "I don't like this. If Sherman had found something like a body, or hell even a clue, there'd be cops all over this place. But instead there's only his car. His personal car, at that." He bit his lip, thinking things over. "I want you to wait here. If I'm not back in five minutes, I want you to drive out of here and call my station. This may be nothing, something Sherman just thought was a little suspicious and he wanted your opinion on it, but better safe than sorry, right?" He gave Curt a patently false smile, then got out of the car.

With what little light there was, Curt watched Bellston check out the other car for a moment before he started moving further into the park. He heard him call out Sherman's name a couple of times, but then Bellston got too far away for either sight or sound, leaving Curt alone.

His nerves already on edge, sitting alone in the dark didn't help Curt's anxiety level any. He wanted Bellston to come back. He wanted Sherman to explain what the hell he was doing.

He wanted Arthur.

The wash of longing was so intense, it felt like a hole in his chest, and it was all Curt could do not to start crying. But he had to focus, had to concentrate on Arthur, who needed him too much for Curt to break down now.

He was doing such a good job of focusing that he nearly jumped out of his skin when Bellston rapped on the window. The detective gave him an apologetic grin, then waved him out. "It's all right. I didn't mean to scare you. Either time, really. Apparently Sherman just found something he wants you to look at. See if you recognize it."

Heart still pounding, Curt climbed out of the car, following Bellston out into the dark until they came across a small maintenance shed. Bellston pointed out the stairway, said, "Right down there. Be careful on the stairs, though, 'cause they're kind of tricky."

As it was, Curt did almost trip, but Bellston was close behind him, catching him before he could fall. Curt whispered, "Thanks," not sure why he felt the need for quiet, but he even opened the door slowly, wincing a little at the whine of rusted hinges.

There was light on the other side, and someone waiting, swinging something at Curt's head even as Curt called out his name. "Arthur!"

Then he was falling.

::::::::::

_I'll be waiting for_ you _, Arthur. For you. So you'd better come alone. Or else you know what I'll do to him. To your little fucktoy. He looks so pretty, Arthur, hanging here, waiting. Waiting for you to come. Waiting for me, if you don't. I'll make it last for days, Arthur. For days._

::::::::::

Arthur had lost count of the number of times he'd paced the small room, but whatever the number, he still hadn't found anything helpful, like say a phone or an unlocked door. The room stayed as irritating unhelpful as it had been on Arthur's first circuit through, nothing but approximately fifteen square feet of bare concrete, an industrial sized sink in one corner, a drain in the middle of the floor, an overhead pipe that he had to duck under to keep from hitting his head, and a wobbly utility shelf along one wall, holding only an empty bottle of bleach and the broken handle of a broom.

It had probably been regularly used by park maintenance workers at one time, but the budget cut two years ago had meant that the room was stripped clean of anything useful, left to molder all that time.

Until a serial killer had decided it made the perfect abattoir, apparently.

But then maybe it wasn't being used as a killing field. Maybe that smell of bleach that lingered on -- that Arthur's imagination insisted on painting another smell under, the chemical burn overlying something faint and foul, like old blood and rotting flesh -- was years old. Maybe the fresh scoring on the overhead pipe wasn't made by metal cuffs, and someone trying to get away, but rather by strange rats who liked to eat metal and left no other sign of their presence behind. And maybe it was one of those old maintenance workers that had written the note to Arthur, threatening to kill Curt in gruesome ways if Arthur didn't come as instructed.

Somehow Arthur doubted it.

Tired from pacing, Arthur sat down on the cold floor, using the utility shelves to rest his shoulder against. He heard his mother's voice in the back of his head, a memory he couldn't quite place, telling him that sitting on a cold floor would give him piles, and he snorted, darkly amused that he probably wouldn't have long to worry about that. Or anything else for that matter.

Having nothing else to do, Arthur started cycling through all the things he should have done instead of just blindly following the note's instructions. How many times he'd made this list was another thing he'd lost count of since he'd been locked down here, but pointless or not, he couldn't seem to stop second guessing himself. He let it come, lightly banging his head back against the wall as he went down the list.

Should have called Sherman when he got the note, or at least shown it to Lou. _bang_ Fuck, he really should have at least called home and checked that Curt wasn't actually there before he'd let himself be led to what was probably going to be his death. _bang_ Should have remembered to bring his mobile phone, though it wasn't likely that he'd have been able to get a signal through down here, but at least it would have been something. _bang_ Should have propped the door open so someone couldn't slam it closed behind him, locking him in. _bang_

But then hindsight was always so clear, and Arthur's sight, blurred and running with terror and tears, had been anything but after he'd first read the note. He hit his head one last time, struggling against tears. God knew they wouldn't help anything.

There was one thing Arthur found good about his situation, though, and that was that he was alone. The note had lied, and Curt wasn't there, and there was no sign that he had been. Arthur's relief at that was about the only thing keeping him from outright panic. That plus a vague hope that, considering Curt _wasn't_ there, maybe it was all some sick prank.

Arthur somehow doubted that, too.

He checked his watch again, amazed at how slowly time was moving considering he wasn't exactly looking forward to what would come. It hadn't even been two hours since he'd been here, though it felt like days. The wait was driving him crazy, but he wasn't going to complain.

Though he couldn't help but wonder. Why hadn't the killer simply followed him into the room rather than locking him in? Why the wait? Better than second guessing himself, he considered it, but all he could come up with was either to heighten his fear -- highly unnecessary, really, because his fear was pretty damn high -- or because the killer had something else to do first -- in which case, Arthur would have been happy to reschedule. But he was only guessing, and as he wasn't a crazy killer, what did he know?

Hitting the palm of his heel against his forehead, a literal slap in the face, Arthur realized that he did know something. He knew that someone had managed to slip into his office, deep in the heart of the paper, to leave him that note, and had managed to do it without anyone noticing anything out of the ordinary. Which meant, most likely, that it was someone who had a reason to be there.

The thought made him shiver, like cold fingers trailing down his spine. Did he actually know this bastard? Was that why he'd always taken care to disguise his voice when they talked, not just to keep the police from using it as evidence? Could it really be somone he saw in the office everyday, someone he'd talked to, thought was normal, and all the while they were spending their free time out there torturing and killing people?

The timing of his abduction, so close on the heels of his decision to spend less time on the story, was that coincidence? Not damn likely. But who knew about it? Lou did, but if Lou was The Fairyland Killer, Arthur would eat his hat. Hell, he'd eat every hat in the city. It couldn't be Lou, but then… he'd also told Sherman and Bellston.

Arthur banged his head again for good measure, belatedly trying to pound some sense into it. Why had he never wondered about Sherman before? The man kept swinging back and forth, treating Arthur like a suspect one moment, but then nearly begging him not to back away from the story the next. And God knew he was a right bastard even without adding in the whole potential killer thing, what with all the thinly veiled -- and not veiled at all -- insults he'd made to Arthur about being gay.

Certainly the police had never found much concrete evidence to track the killer on, had never found out where he'd done his kills, and who would know better how to avoid that kind of detection than a detective himself?

But if Arthur were right, there went what little chance he had of being found before the killer showed up. He doubted that Curt even knew he was missing yet, probably just assuming he'd fallen back into the same bad habits he'd been practicing for months. And if Curt did know, and if he went to Sherman for help… God, Arthur didn't even want to think about that.

But then there was no time to think of anything. The thick walls had kept him from hearing anyone approach, but the rusty hinges of the door swinging open let Arthur know that his time was up. Panic was clawing at him, but he forced himself to think, just think, and he grabbed the broken broom handle off the shelf beside him, standing up to defend himself as best he could, swinging for the fences as he brought the handle around at what he hoped was head level.

He didn't have time to check his swing when he heard Curt's voice, faint and questioning, call his name, but his swing missed all the same as Bellston pushed Curt down, pulling the handle away from Arthur as it passed him. Still not quite able to believe what he was seeing, Arthur let it go, turning to help Curt up.

Only to fall to the floor himself, pain flashing behind his eyes before everything went dark.

He didn't lose consciousness for long, just enough time for Bellston to have propped him back over against the wall by his old friend the utility shelf, his hands cuffed behind him. Just enough time for Bellston to have cuffed Curt to the pipe overhead, Curt not quite up on his toes, but not quite standing either. Not that it kept him from struggling, cursing up a storm, even when Bellston backhanded him hard across the face.

Arthur tried to get his feet under him, the awkwardness of his cuffed hands only part of the problem as the room felt like it was tilting and swirling every time he moved, but he dug his back into the wall, using it for the balance he was lacking. What he hoped to accomplish once he did get up he hadn't really thought through, only knowing that he couldn't just sit there and watch Curt be hurt.

But that was exactly what Bellston wanted, shouting, "Sit back down, Arthur," backing the command up with a knife at Curt's throat, a trickle of blood welling out past the edge, startling against the pale skin.

His brain wanted to shut down, running in loops that couldn't decide what to do, but Arthur's legs settled the dilemma, dropping him back on his ass as they started to shake. A thousand stupid things to say ran through his mind -- "You'll never get away with this" or "Touch him and I'll kill you" -- but what actually made it out of his mouth was, "I'm sorry, Curt," which was just as stupid, but at least true.

Psycho at his back, a knife to his throat, his mouth red with incipient bruising, and Curt still smiled at his, saying, "It's okay, Ar-"

The rest was cut off as Bellston replaced the knife with his hand, squeezing hard. "I'm the only one that gets to talk here."

Curt tried to twist away, and Arthur recognized that stubborn look on his face. He wanted to tell him not to be stupid, but knew he didn't have any ground to speak, and he was too afraid to say anything and antagonize Bellston further. But Bellston didn't seem antagonized by Curt's resistance, instead laughing and saying, "Oh, I like a struggle. But if you talk without my giving you permission to, I might just be tempted to stick this in Arthur over there," holding up the knife in front of Curt's face.

As much as Arthur had wanted Curt to play it safe -- or as safe as they could in their situation -- it hurt to see him stop struggling, as if Arthur himself had been complicit in subduing Curt. It also hurt to see Bellston pulling Curt's body back closer to him, hands tight on his hips, grinding into his ass for a moment. A quick flip of the knife, and Bellston was ripping Curt's t-shirt down the middle, running both hands over his now-bare chest, twisting the flat of the knife from time to time to leave little cuts welling blood behind it.

Curt wasn't resisting, but his body was tight with anger. He wouldn't look at Arthur, even though Bellston kept them facing him, making sure his audience had a good view. Bellston was looking, though, obviously enjoying his discomfort as much as Curt's. He pinched one of Curt's nipples even as he pressed the tip of the knife into the other, his eyes dipping to look at his handiwork for a moment before they went back to Arthur. "He's like the stuff of fantasy, isn't he? With all the others, I only touched, only touched, but now..."

Arthur shook harder at those words. None of the others had been raped, leading the cops to believe that the killings weren't sexual, motivated by hate rather than need. But Bellston certainly wasn't acting like that was his only motivation now. Forgetting the prohibition to talk, the reporter in him instinctively trying to understand, maybe even to prevent, Arthur asked, "Why? If it was sex you wanted, why didn't you do more than touch? Why kill them at all?"

Bellston let the knife dig in deeper, making Curt hiss, and Arthur's fists clinched, nails biting in to draw their own blood as he realized what he'd done, but Bellston didn't do more than that, his head tilted as he thought it over. "Do you have any idea what would have happened to me if the guys at the station found out I liked men? That I was a fucking queer? Let's just say it would be bad. So I couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk being like you, out in the open. But every day we'd have to go down past the district, past all the little twinks in their short shorts, strutting like they had no shame. Or we'd get calls at the clubs, fights breaking out over pretty boys like Curt here, with all their pouty come hither looks, and their fucking tight leather pants."

Bellston rubbed a hand over Curt's leather pants, then slid the hand inside them, giving a sharp squeeze to his cock. Curt bit his lip, not making a sound, but Arthur couldn't keep from begging, "Stop!"

Surprisingly, Bellston did, his mind still on what he'd been saying. "It was like they knew somehow, knew that I couldn't have them, but still insisted on flaunting what they were in my face. The first one, he'd tried to proposition me. It made me so fucking angry, his offering me that when I couldn't have it. So I decided I would have it, but that I'd never let him tell anyone about it. What he deserved for teasing me, right? But I was too nervous, and I couldn't… well, I couldn't. And the bastard kept pleading with me to let him go, like all of it hadn't been his fault in the first place. So I cut him. And it felt good, you know? Almost as good as fucking him would have been."

He smiled at Arthur, then, inviting him to share in his amazing discovery. Hoping to keep him talking, hoping, even knowing it was probably in vain, that something would happen to get them out of this, Arthur nodded, biting back a fit of hysterical giggles when, finally looking at him again, Curt rolled his eyes in disgust.

Bellston didn't notice, or didn't care, because he just kept going. "The next one, well, him I could have fucked. I thought about it, too, 'cause he tried to act all innocent, like he wasn't just a whore, but then I thought it was too much of a risk. I would have had to use a condom, which I hate, and it wasn't worth maybe leaving any evidence in the body. The cutting was good enough, anyway. Good enough to let them know what they were good for. Good enough to serve as a warning to others. Not that they ever took it. Curt here, certainly didn't, always flirting with me. Did you know what a slut he was, Arthur? How he was coming on to other men? But I never did anything about him, because I liked you. I really liked you, Arthur. Ever since I read that story you did on Councilman Deaver. That was just great work."

His voice was incredibly sincere, eager to convince Arthur of just how honest he was being, and he looked expectantly at him, waiting for a response. All Arthur could think of was a somewhat hesitant, "Thanks," but apparently that was the right answer, because Bellston smiled again. "So that's why I left Curt alone, even with his teasing. That's why I chose you to talk to in the first place. A reporter like you, I knew you'd figure out what I was doing eventually. I knew you'd understand, and that you'd get my message out there so that me, and other guys like me, would be safe."

The smile disappeared then, and he used the knife to draw a line of red across Curt's stomach, a deeper cut than he'd been making. Curt still didn't make a noise, but he tried to twist away from the knife, going still only when Bellston gave another warning squeeze of his cock. "And then you fucking betrayed me. You were going to spend less time on the story, on my message, and just for Curt! Who's such a fucking tease, Arthur, so not worth screwing me over for. I could have made you famous, but instead I'll have to kill you. Instead I'll have to do this." Another flick of the knife, another trail of blood, and Bellston rubbed himself against Curt again. "I don't think I'll let your bodies be found. No bodies, no evidence, right? No evidence, and I can do what I please to you."

Arthur was terrified, the need to hide from what was coming strong, to just close his eyes and pretend it wasn't happening. But he couldn't leave Curt alone, not now, so he tried to catch his eye again, to offer what comfort he could, but Curt wasn't looking at him, his head tilted back to rest on Bellston's shoulder instead. Arthur couldn't see them, but he guessed that Curt's eyes were half-lidded, because that was the expression he usually wore when he licked his lips like that, slow and wet, the tip of his tongue playing with the bow of his lip. There was a moment of disconnect where Arthur wondered if he'd gone crazy, but then Curt said, "Well if you don't care about evidence, we might as well have some fun, huh?" and Arthur knew what he was trying to do.

It might have been a decent ploy, to act the slut and get Bellston to release him, if only Bellston had been an idiot. But Arthur wasn't the only one who knew what Curt was up to, and Bellston just leered at him. "Oh, I'll have fun all right. But you? You'll be screaming before I'm done." He gave another vicious squeeze, actually making Curt cry out this time, his body going tight with pain before he sagged back, bonelessly hanging from the cuffs.

Bellston let go, then, coming around in front of Curt to study him, a painter in front of his canvas. His attention back on Arthur, he asked, "Red looks good on him, doesn't it?"

Even though Arthur had been watching, he barely saw Curt's legs move before they were up and wrapped around Bellston's neck, drawing tight. The same strength that kept Arthur pulled in tight when they were making love was now cutting off Bellston's breath, and Bellston strained to get away, unable to break Curt's hold.

Arthur was struggling to get up, his surprise over how fast things had happened hampering him, but even as he got to his feet, Bellston got over his own surprise, remembering that he still had a knife in his hand, stabbing it into Curt's thigh, right above the knee. Curt didn't even try to keep quiet that time, shouting, "Fuck," so loudly it bounced around the bare walls of the room. But he didn't let go.

Bellston's face was starting to turn a deep red, and his movements were going sluggish, but he twisted the knife with one hand, making Curt scream again, while the other started scrabbling around his waist, probably going for his gun, and Arthur knew it was only moments before everything would be right back to where it had been, only with Bellston even angrier than before.

Arthur wasted a couple of those precious moments debating between a head butt or trying to bite the hand holding the knife. Inspiration struck, along with a keen sense of poetic justice, and he kicked Bellston hard between his legs, happily imagining a wet popping sound hidden beneath the bellow that Bellston made.

He basked in his moment of glory for a second -- and his mother had been completely wrong about all those hours he'd spent playing football being a waste of time -- but then the panic started to set in. Curt was laughing, congratulating him on his aim, but his voice was slurred, pain and blood loss setting in, and Arthur's youthful kicking skills aside, he wasn't as limber as he'd once been, and pulling your legs through cuffed hands was a lot harder than it looked in the movies. Giving it up as a lost cause, Arthur instead tried to find the keys to the cuffs, but between his own awkwardness and the fact that Bellston was curled into a fetal ball, he wasn't having much luck at that, either.

Arthur was about ten seconds away from crying even harder than Bellston was, fear and frustration making his voice as slurred as Curt's as he tried to offer up useless assurances and comfort even as he still struggled to get the key, but all of that was drowned out as the door to the room slammed open, the squeal of the hinges lost in the bang of foot against door, door against wall. When Sherman stepped through, Arthur had a moment to be afraid that he'd been in on the killings, that he and Curt were still going to die, but then there were cops flooding into the room behind him, looking eerily like clowns pouring out of a VW Bug.

In the confusion that followed, all Arthur cared about was getting over to Curt, but there were too many people between them, someone holding him still to uncuff his hands, someone else asking questions about Bellston, someone calling dispatch for an ambulance, and while Arthur was grateful for that, it was almost more than he could do to keep from using his newly rediscovered kicking skills to clear them all out of his way.

Then Sherman was standing in front of him, and the other cops seemed to flow around him, the Red Sea parting, until he was the only thing between Arthur and Curt. He was scanning the room, taking it all in with a kind of bemused disgust, far too jaded to look surprised even when he was. His eyes finally settled on Arthur, and he fervently said, "Jesus H Roosevelt Christ," which Arthur took as his cue to go see Curt.

He let the chaos wash around them, holding Curt as tightly as he could without hurting him more, unable to tell which of them was shaking harder. His own attempts at comfort kept falling away under Curt's soothing voice, telling him, "It's okay, we're safe now," interspersed with tiny kisses along his neck and jaw, the only places Curt had enough freedom of movement to reach. Arthur could regret that, the restraint he'd placed on Curt so soon after what had happened, but Curt wasn't making any effort to get away, content in Arthur's arms.

Sherman was barking on his radio, telling them to get the ambulance there faster, and Arthur loved him so much at the moment that he didn't even mind when Sherman said, "God, wouldn't want the dumb bastard to bleed to death after I went to all this effort to save him."

::::::::::

_And I'll enjoy every minute of it. Especially when he screams._

::::::::::

Curt loved Arthur dearly, but at the moment he felt like beating him on the head. "Arthur. Arthur. Arthur."

Exasperated, Arthur looked up from where he'd been gently lapping at Curt's navel. "What?"

"I'm not going to break."

For a moment, Curt was afraid that Arthur would. His sat back on their bed, his face wearing that haunted expression that it had the weeks Curt had spent in the hospital, fighting an infection that had set him back a bit. Curt had figured it would fade as his cuts did, scarring over the way all trauma did, but it had been three months now, and Arthur still treated him like he was fragile.

It wasn't that Curt didn't appreciate the concern, and it wasn't like he had walked away from that night without his own share of fears. If Arthur had tried to touch him sexually, even with care, in those first weeks afterwards, Curt probably would have smacked him, and not just because his dick had been sore from where that dick Bellston had squeezed him. But it was months ago now, and they'd talked and talked about it, something Curt wasn't all that fond of doing, reminding him too much of the group therapy he'd had to sit through when he was younger. But even though Arthur would admit that none of what happened was his fault, that Bellston was just a crazy fuck, and that no one could have guessed what was going to set him off, he still touched Curt like he was afraid of hurting him.

Arthur's expression cleared, going from haunted to fond, but Curt knew better than to think it was that easy; Arthur was just marshaling his arguments. When he finally started talking, it was hesitant, stop and start, as he tried to express what he was thinking, maybe not sure what it was himself. "I just… I don't want… I couldn't bear to hurt you."

"You won't."

Arthur shook his head, frustrated. "But I might. You don't know what you do to me, sometimes. I see you, and, God, I want you. I want to be in you so deep you feel me everywhere."

Which sounded good to Curt, his dick hardening at the words. He rubbed his interest against Arthur, trying to let him see how much he liked the idea, but Arthur wasn't finished.

"But I'm afraid I won't be able to hold back. I mean, I can see you hiding it, but I know your leg is still giving you problems, and the scars…" he trailed off, one finger lightly tracing over the still red scar that lay across Curt's right nipple. Totally oblivious to Arthur's concern, the nipple hardened, happy with the attention.

Arthur did at least laugh at that reaction, knowing logically that there was nothing wrong with what he wanted, but still too caught up in what he'd had to witness in that basement to _feel_ it was okay.

"Yeah, I have scars, Arthur, but I had scars before Bellston. Hell, I had scars before you were born. They're part of me, and I'm assuming that you still want me even with them."

Arthur huffed out a laugh. "Always. Too much."

Curt shook his head, trying to will Arthur to believe him. "Never."

"I don't want to hurt you."

At that, Curt couldn't help but laugh, too. "You never have. Not in any way that truly hurt. And don't tell me you weren't feeling what I did to you last weekend, 'cause you walked funny until Tuesday, and I know you enjoyed that. Are you truly going to let some freak stop us from having what we both want? Stop you from fucking me into the mattress so hard our neighbors start banging on the walls for us to be quiet? 'Cause I want you to do that. I want it right now."

And he did, his dick so hard he could scream from it. This was pain, this not having what he wanted, and Arthur, bless his stupidly guilty heart, must have finally saw reason, or at least finally listened to his other head, because he pushed Curt back into the mattress with one hand, the other madly scrambling for the lube. He stroked one slick finger up into Curt, trying for steady and smooth, to slowly open him up, but his hands were shaking, and Curt was too eager to wait, pulling Arthur down on top of him, spreading his legs high and wide beneath him. "Fuck me, Arthur. Please, now, I just-"

He let go of trying to say anything when Arthur breached him, his carefulness giving way to need, and it felt so fucking good as he sank deep inside Curt. But he was still holding back, still trying to keep the pace slow and controlled, and it wasn't enough for Curt. He wrapped his legs tight around Arthur's waist, not letting him pull away as Curt pushed himself hard onto Arthur's dick, taking it in as deep as he could, as fast as he could.

Arthur could only take so much, and that pushed him right past his fear, his own hands digging into Curt's hips as he held him tight against his thrusts. It felt like he was trying to crawl into Curt, to live under his skin. It felt like magic, and Curt couldn't do anything but push back against him, trying for more. He thought about touching himself, but he was already too close, it had been too long since he'd had this. Months since that night, and little more than quick handjobs, a couple of almost frantic blowjobs, in the months before when Arthur had been working too hard, and, fuck, Curt had missed this. Missed Arthur more than he could say. So he held on tight, Arthur his only anchor in pleasure so deep he was drowning.

He came, his vision whiting out for a moment, the feel of Arthur's body on him, in him, still thrusting, keeping him grounded while his body settled. Arthur had slowed down, riding out Curt's orgasm, hand carding through his hair as he rained soft kisses all over Curt's face. Holding him tight, Curt returned the kisses as best he could, trying to give Arthur whatever it was he needed.

Arthur didn't seem to be in any hurry to come, seemingly more interested in touching Curt than fucking him, but Curt didn't mind. The feel of Arthur moving slowly inside him was wonderful, a low thrum of pleasure, and he felt like it could go on forever, but eventually Arthur's hips jerked hard, a couple of quick, sharp thrusts before his back went tight, his dick swelling and ebbing deep inside Curt.

They held like that for a long minutes, neither of them moving, their breathing finally calming down. The sweat was drying on their bodies, and Curt shivered, but Arthur's body was still warm, still close, still in him, and he didn't want to lose it, not quite yet.

Arthur looked down at him, eyes still troubled, and Curt almost groaned. It hadn't even been sex so much as a religious experience, and if that wasn't enough to get Arthur over his belief that he would hurt him, Curt really didn't know what would.

"He said you were the stuff of fantasies, and I knew what he meant. That's what you were to me once. But… God, Curt, you're so much more than that. To me. And I was so afraid."

And what was there to say to that. Curt had been more than a little afraid himself. He remembered the world dropping away when Bellston had told him that they wanted him to look at something. The absolute vacuum that had threatened to tear him apart at the possibility that Arthur was dead. He knew that fear far too well.

But he knew this better. Holding Arthur close, still connected, not wanting to lose that even though things were getting a little sticky down there. He knew small, precious kisses that had nothing to do with sex, and careful hands that knew his scars so well they didn't even hesitate over them. He knew their big bed, and arguments over the wet spot because they kept forgetting a towel, too caught up in the moment, in each other, to think ahead. He knew their large, but still cluttered apartment, his knickknacks and mess spilling into Arthur's order, a strange, but workable compromise, a combination of them both. He knew he kept the temperature higher than Arthur liked, but that Arthur never complained, because he knew, even without knowing why, that Curt needed it.

Curt knew them, their life together. And Bellston had tried to take it away, but he hadn't, he hadn't. So Curt let Arthur slowly pull away, let him settle back on his side of the bed, still waiting for Curt to answer him. Which he did by throwing himself on top of Arthur, grinning at his startled "Whuff!", grinning as he said, "That's what you get for trying to make me lay in the wet spot."

Arthur sighed, saying, "Bitch, bitch, bitch," but negated the complaint by pulling Curt's head down to his chest, his fingers massaging gently, nice and warm, against Curt's scalp, his other arm lying on his stomach, twined with Curt's. Whatever his fears, Arthur knew this, too.

Three days later, when Curt complained about still having to sit funny, Arthur only laughed, but then came home early that evening so that Curt could have his revenge.

/story

AN: the title is a little bit of a joke, taken from the line _Fierce war, and faithful love, and truth severe by fairy fiction drest_ by Thomas Gray, and the first part fit what the story was about, and the last part made me laugh because of what the story was about, so there you go. ;)  



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